Drabbles and Doodles
by my2amthoughts
Summary: This story is about two absolutely ordinary people. With an absolutely ordinary story. But with an undeniably extraordinary charm. Because really, not everyone gets their airplane meet cute. (Muggle!AU)


_'There's this feeling in your stomach. This tiny little flicker of excitement. And with the gradual ascent of the plane, the feeling grows until it takes up all the space in your heart. You're so full that you forget that you have ever felt hollow. This - this anticipation is strangely exhilarating and yet you feel more at peace than ever before. This anticipation is that small warm smile. This anticipation is that shit eating grin. And then you look down. You look down and the lights somehow feel brighter than before, the city more beautiful. And if you shut your eyes, you almost believe that you're leaving forever. Like there's no coming back - just new beginnings.'_

* * *

The girl with the green eyes stretches her legs out, tilts her head back and then sneaks one last glance at the couple in the seats across hers. Her hands itch for her notebook and pen for the first time in months. A faint smile on her lips, she picks up her phone, her fingers dancing against the keys. She can make that couple do anything - be anything. That strange idea of power gives her an even stranger high. There is nothing out of the ordinary about the girl. Just your average teenager with the same old problems and the same fanciful ideas of rebellion. And yet she is different. She doesn't know it yet, hopefully she'll figure it out along the way. For now, scribbling half finished thoughts in her battered notebook - or, in this case, her phone - has to be enough for the girl. Slowly, the music lulls her to sleep. And she dreams - dreams that maybe when she wakes up she won't be ordinary anymore.

The boy with the messy hair falters. The spontaneity of this trip – this visit to his best friend - hadn't seemed daunting until he had stepped into the airport. The sight of the frenzied people around him, of the passionate goodbyes makes him oddly sick. He is doing this. Actually doing this. And honestly, he doesn't know what he is doing at all. But he moves forward. Maybe it is determination, maybe it is sheer obstinacy, but he finally finds himself on the plane, fidgeting uneasily in his seat. The plane slowly stirs into motion and finally a smile creeps onto the boy's face. As the plane begins its ascent, his worries began to fall away.

He flexes his hand and surreptitiously looks at the couple in the seat across his, only to immediately look down, immortalizing them in a series of careless flicks of his pen. The boy too, is like any other ordinary teenager. A teenager with a more pronounced rebellious streak - but an ordinary teenager nonetheless. Notebook and biro in hand he scribbles away. A beautiful pair of eyes on one page - the joy of a laughing baby on the other. Finally he looks up, giving himself a break long enough to crack his knuckles and stretch his neck. But then she catches his eye (and honestly, how could anyone ever think there was any going back after that?). As she smiles down at her phone screen, a strange satisfaction on her face, there is a volley of emotions in his volatile teenage heart. He can identify only one - he needs to draw her.

The girl wakes up disappointed. No change here (well her hair was far messier than before but that was just another cross she had to bear). Except, she realizes, there is a change. Because now there is a boy. A pretty good looking one too. He is sleeping, a book resting against his chest. She smiles to herself. Maybe she won't be so ordinary anymore. Hesitating, she taps the boy's shoulder. Her tentative smile. His sleepy one.

She raises her eyebrows in question. He gestures towards the wailing baby in the seat next to the one that was originally his, shrugging. They share a small laugh.

"What book are you reading?"

"Oh. I - uh - um - it's actually not a book. I mean not a reading thing. It's an uh - notebook? Sketchpad thing?"

He groans inwardly at his fumbling. She smiles (rather dreamily, but it's not that obvious, is it?). There is no stopping the conversation after that. Nor is there stopping the sparks.

She tells him she writes. He shows her his sketches. They argue about 'The Breakfast Club' being better than 'Grease'. (She wins, because come on; no one can possibly compete with that last 'Don't You Forget About Me'). They agree that pizza is overrated and decide that Donald Trump is an alien (there is no way a human can be that stupid). She tells him about her family, her neurotic sister. He tells her that he always wanted a sibling. He now makes do with his best friend. She tells him about how she isn't so sure about having a best friend anymore. He just offers her a small sympathetic smile, all the time singing 'You've Got a Friend in Me' under his breath. (She swats his head for that, because really, could he get any cheesier?). As the lights in the plane dim she finds herself resting her head against his shoulder. All her sensibilities ask her _'what are you doing?'_ She doesn't give them an answer, because 'how is this so _comfortable_?' He tells her that she has finally succumbed to his impossibly good looks. She calls him an arrogant toerag. He calls her a swot. Neither say what they actually want to. Like how her eyes make him feel things like he has never felt before. Or how his smile makes her feel warmer than ever.

Both their eyes are drooping, but they don't want to stop talking. She tells him that she doesn't know what she's doing. That she feels lost at sea. Like the world is going ahead and leaving her behind. And she is petrified. Petrified because she is a take-charge kind of girl. Petrified because this not-knowing makes her feel like everything she does know about herself is slipping away. There are unshed tears in her wide eyes. (He hates that he thinks that they make her look beautiful, but the sparkle of tears against emerald is breathtaking.) Something tells him she needs words. So he fills the silence with words. Words of support, of mirth, of assurance. He tells her that travelling halfway across the globe to find a dream _is_ taking charge. He holds her and she lets him, and at that moment she feels like even the stars are not too far away. He tells her about his best friend had finally come out to his parents. How he hid the wounds they had inflicted – both physical and emotional. How he had finally run away from home to escape from them (she hates that the sheer fury in his eyes captivates her.). He told her he was scared for his friend. Scared because he didn't know how to help him. Scared because he felt he hadn't been a friend good enough for him. She squeezes his hand. A strange intuition tells her that words wouldn't comfort the boy, so she merely smiles at him, her eyes telling him all the things she wants to say. And both of them fall into a comfortable kind of quiet.

She enjoys the silence. Marvels at how the otherwise restless boy doesn't find the need to intersperse it with random chatter. He basks in the silence. Awed by how her simple presence makes him feel at ease. Both their thoughts follow the same direction. It shouldn't feel so _easy._ These things – these instant connections – don't really happen. But somewhere along the conversation her legs had ended up draped across his lap, her head against his chest. Somewhere along the conversation he had draped his arm around her shoulder, his cheek resting on her head. And it feels so right that they both forget their doubts for that little moment in time.

She falls asleep first and he finally gets his chance to draw her. Positioning her carefully, he pulls his hand free and occupies himself with his notebook. He sketches the slope of nose. The curve of her cheek. The fullness of her lips. The waves in her hair. And finally, he draws her eyes. He looks down at the sketch and then at the girl resting against his chest. He tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and laughs because how did he ever think that his drawing would do her any justice. He puts his notebook back in his bag with the memory of the girl with the loud laugh and warm eyes lodged firmly in between. As he rests his head against hers, she opens her eyes and smiles at the notebook sticking out of his bag.

"Sir. Sir. We have arrived at our destination. You need to collect your luggage from the overhead compartment." The air hostess wakes him up with considerable reluctance. It had been a long time since she had seen two people so absolutely at ease with one another. The way they slept, so seamlessly intertwined – _fitting_ – like two matching puzzle pieces. He opens his eyes, squinting against the bright light. He nods at the air hostess then looks down at the girl in his arms. And it hits him. This is it. He will probably never see her again. She will go find her dream, he, his best friend. And of course, they will promise to keep in touch. At first there'll be phone calls, daily texts and the like. And then there'll be weekly texts, the occasional 'How've you been?' call. And then there'll be awkward conversations, the Christmas cards. He hates the very thought. So he gently takes her head off his chest, rests it against the seat and stands up. He'd be happier with just this one plane ride. He is sure of it. So he begins to walk away. (And what is that damn ache in his chest?)

She wakes up, oddly cold. Looks around and sees no sign of - of him. She hadn't even got his name. It very nearly feels like a dream. But the feeling of his arms wrapped around her was very real - the feeling of his smile against her forehead after he drew her was very real. Despite herself, she had begun to hope. Hoped that there would be silly texts sent at odd hours of the night. Hoped that there would be phone calls that lasted for hours. But looking at the empty seat near her she realizes that it wasn't as real as she had hoped it to be. And she wants to be angry godammit. (So why is there a stupid lump in her throat?)

Both pass through the airport, into their respective taxis, in a daze. It just shouldn't hurt so damn much. 'It's for the best,' he decides, almost convincing himself. Even though all he can think of is the scar on her collarbone and how he wants to trace it with his lips. 'It's for the best,' she tells herself, almost believing it too. Although all she can think of his palms, and how warm they would feel against her waist.

London city passes through in a haze of 'what ifs' and 'maybes'; the suburbs in a storm of 'how could he'. When the taxi finally pulls up outside Trinity Hall, a rugged smiling face looking at her from the Porter's Lodge, she has settled on righteous fury. (Who does he think he is, leaving without a bloody goodbye?)

London city passes in a blur of 'I could have's' and 'maybes'; the suburbs in a downpour of 'God she was beautiful.' When the taxi finally pulls up outside Downing College, his best friend's wide grin greeting him, he has settled on grim determination. (But how he is going to find her, he has no bloody idea.)

Remus pulls her bags out from the taxi, appeasing her with inane chatter about the weather. Among the milleu of things Remus is good at, he is possibly the best at reading emotions. And hers are storming. So he bides his time, waiting till she inevitably explodes. And explode she does. "That jerk! He - he's funny and charming in a way that really shouldn't be charming; but somehow on him it is. And he draws Remus. Draws. Not to impress girls but actually draws to express emotion. And he's patient. He listens to everything I say and then somehow manages to tell me exactly what I need to hear. And he's so damn cocky. It should annoy me, it really should, but it doesn't. And then - and then to top it all off - he's just _good_. He worries about being a good person. He flies half way across the damned globe to check up on his best friend. He listens to a complete stranger babble about her problems. Who does that, huh?" Not waiting for a reply to her question she goes on, "He! That's who. And so he does all of this and makes me go and _like_ him. And then he just disappears. Without so much as a bloody goodbye!"

Sirius grabs the boy into a hug, throwing the bags to the ground. The boy smiles. It feels nice knowing that Sirius is alright. His smile falters in the slightest when he sees Sirius' piercing look and his following smirk. The smirk that says, 'You're up to something. Spill.' He doesn't quite want to tell his best friend about her yet. Hell, he doesn't even know her name. But Sirius has always backed him up, no matter how crazy his plan maybe. And what could be crazier than falling for a girl whose name he doesn't know? Sirius nearly laughs out loud as he sees his friend's resolve visibly crumble, biding his time until he speaks. And speak he does. "This girl! She – she's something else. She's headstrong and just about as stubborn as I am. So it should be tough to get along with her right? But it isn't. And she's so passionate – there's this flame in her eyes when she speaks. And when she says she believes, you want to believe too – and her _eyes_ Sirius, they're _mesmerizing._ She makes me sappy. And crazy. And her hair is a big red mess and it drives me wild because I want to run my hands through it. And the worst, the absolute worst is that she _listens_ and says exactly what you need. And she's gone now because I was a colossal fool. I didn't even get her damn name Sirius!"

She trails behind Remus. He has this stupid grin on his face that elicits a small smile out of her. He's introducing her to his boyfriend. It has been a while since she has seen Remus this happy. She wants to be happy for him. She really does. But her thoughts keeping going back to the boy on the plane. What Remus said had made perfect sense. That the boy didn't tell her his name because he didn't want to go ahead with – with whatever it is that they had. That she should just cast him out of her mind. And she agrees too. But that isn't enough for her to forget about him. Forget about his throaty laugh. Or his stupid dimple. Or his awfully messy hair. Or his hands. (And how they would feel on her. Warm. Rough? She hates – and _thrills_ in – the path that her thoughts take.) It is enough to drive her crazy. She tries shaking herself out of this madness and tries focusing on the boyfriend. And why on earth is the name Sirius so familiar?

He forces himself to grin as he falls into step with Sirius. Even Sirius _gait_ is lovesick as he takes him to introduce him to his boyfriend. The boy is happy for his best friend. He really is. But even Sirius' happiness isn't enough to take him away from the girl plaguing his thoughts. What Sirius had said had been absolutely ludicrous. That they would search every corner of London city to find her. And that thinking about her constantly would do nothing to solve his problem. And he agrees too. But that isn't enough for him to just stop thinking about her. Stop thinking about her smile. Or her hair. Or her lips. (And how they would feel against his own. Would they trail against his skin? The mere thought makes him shiver) It is enough to drive him crazy. So he tries hard to be the best friend he has come here to be. And where has he heard the name Remus before?

Remus and Sirius greet each other with an enthusiastic kiss. She hates that she feels a pang of jealousy. So does he. Both minds wander to hushed conversations and secrets shared with strangers. Both eyes take a while to look up, still a little glazed with tears of 'what could have been'. And then they finally look at each other and they swear that time has stopped. Because nothing else seems to matter as he takes in her face, committing it to his memory. Because nothing else seems to matter as she looks at his smile, feeling warm despite herself. There is a glinting fury in her green eyes. (And _oh God_ the things it does to him.) There is a cocky smirk on his lips. (And _oh God_ she wonders what it would be like to kiss it off his face). And they just stand there, staring at each other for what seems like forever.

Neither can say who initiated the kiss. All she knows is that his palms have crept up her sweater and are warm against her waist. (The lazy circles he is rubbing against her skin make it hard for her to stand.) All he knows is that her lips are against his soft and pliant, hard and demanding. (She just nipped the corner of his lips and he feels oddly unsteady.) Two pointed coughs force them to pull apart. Her face is beautifully flushed. His hair is even messier than before. Their foreheads resting against each other they breathe out a small "Hi.".

"James," he introduces.

"Lily," she smiles.


End file.
